


Like Chardonnay, Get Better Over Time

by dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's a bit of a sleazy brotherly scumbag, F/M, Fluff, Implied Smut, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba/pseuds/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba
Summary: Y/n finds the bunker empty on a random Wednesday night, and decides it's time to do some self care. Now, one would argue the primest form of self care is dancing, so she finds herself in the bunker, singing at the top of her lungs. However, the boys are back sooner than she thought...
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Like Chardonnay, Get Better Over Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a fic from @luci-in-trenchcoat in tumblr.

As soon as she heard both boys were leaving the bunker, she knew she could finally take the time to properly do the self care she was in dire need of. After two months of hunting, and research, and hunting, with barely a couple of hours of sleep between each, finally she has some downtime, completely alone, for just a bit. It’s time for her to pull out the big guns. 

Steam is fogging up the mirror in the showers as she slips out, feet bare and pruned from the time spent under the water, legs newly shaved. With her hair still wet, she pulls on a pair of underwear and one of Sam's biggest flannels, cotton soft on her skin. Dean doesn’t care much for quality in his clothes, he buys any shirt he likes the color of. Sam on the other hand… Sam gets the good quality stuff, true cotton, thick and warm, as a reminder that he can make his own decisions and isn’t forced to buy everything from rushed trips to Target anymore. 

The rings in her fingers shine a little under the lights as she folds the sleeves of the flannel right above her elbows, and pulls her hair in a quick French braid, so they'll be curly when dry. 

As much as Y/n loves Dean's cassette tapes and classic rock tunes, sometimes- just sometimes- she'll admit to liking some newer, more dancey songs, stuff that's pop and upbeat. It's something she'll be judged for under the elder Winchester's roof, so she usually listens to it with earbuds shoved deeply in her ears, and a quiet bob of her head. Now, though, alone in the bunker, it's a unique chance, and she'll be damned if she doesn't fucking take it. 

Feet in fluffy socks, she runs to the war room, pulls out her phone and sets the volume as high as it can go, dancing to a Lizzo song, because she likes her, and there's nothing more to it. She doesn't have to explain herself to anyone. Yeah. She feels a little sentimental, because she knows her grandfather was quite the dancer, and it's been a while since she's thought of him. She misses him, so she dedicates a spin or two to him, and continues belting lyrics at the top of her lungs. 

_ Juice ain't worth the squeeze, _

_ If the juice don't look like this! _

It took a while to love herself, and if any song brings that confidence to the surface, it's gotta be that one. 

Feeling happy, and comfortable in her own skin, she jumps on the map table and waves her hands in the air. It's not the most graceful she can be, but she doesn't much care for looking good, as much as feeling herself, and catching every beat with a swing of her hips, a wink to no one in particular. In fact, this feels good enough to open a button or two in her flannel, just for herself, because feeling this free is such an incredible and rare feeling. 

She loses count of the songs, but it's near the first ten or so when the last one ends, and she stops, smiling to take a breath, halting as she spots none other than a young Winchester. Hair neatly pulled behind his ears, arms crossed over his torso, leaning against the door frame, with that gorgeous, proud smile of his. She pants, grinning wide and willing herself not to feel self conscious, because whatever the case, no matter how ridiculous she may have looked, she'd had her fun, and that was that. 

"I guess you're back then. Supply run went well?" Sam shakes his head, still smiling.

"Wow," he tells her, eyes scanning her from head to toe, like she's the most beautiful thing in the room, like nothing else could hold his attention quite like the rebellious strands escaping from her braid, the folded sleeves, the bare legs in fuzzy socks. He pushes off the door frame and starts walking towards her. "Just wow," no sarcasm in his voice, no irony, just true admiration for the girl he loves, because she looks so happy and free. He stands in front of her on the table, as she comes close to the edge, placing his wide palms on the backs of her legs, under her knees, and looks up at her with that smile. She strokes his hair behind his ears a little, smoothing the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders and holding his chin gently between her fingers. “I gotta say,” he mutters, fingers absent-mindedly stroking her skin, “you’ve got some moves.” 

A laugh escapes her lips as she smacks his shoulder. “Shut up.” His grin is unmatched and, in a smooth motion, Sam’s hands are up to her waist, and he’s lifting her off the table and on him. She wraps her arms and legs around him with a loud squeal and a laugh, suddenly a little above eye-level. “Don’t drop me,” she mutters breathlessly, grinning down at him. Sam only lets her slide a little, sit on the table in front of him with him between her legs. He nuzzles his nose into her cheek and pecks a kiss there. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

She grins again, heat crawling up her neck and burning her cheeks and the tips of her ears, and he sees it, tucking some wayward escapee strands back behind her ear. She wants to shy away.    
“You look amazing,” he tells her, tone low, letting his gaze roam from her eyes, down her body and her naked legs, wrapped around his torso. Forehead leaning against hers for a brief second, his hands trail up, cupping her face, and he kisses her just under her left brow softly, so softly. He moves then, and y/n sighs, hands going to his forearms, as he presses his lips on her right eyelid, then blazes a path with his lips, down her cheek, on her jaw, right under the cut of it, near her ear, where he takes a breath. “Smell amazing too,” and goosebumps form all around her body. She feels so fucking  _ hot. _

“ _ Not _ on my fucking map table, you two.” Dean’s voice cuts through Sam’s heavy breaths, and the latter sags a little bit in her arms. 

“Dean’s here?” 

“He was unloading the car,” Sam mutters and barely moves, shielding her from his brother’s view, as Dean saunters with that stupid, cocky smile of his in the War Room. He whistles, looking at her, half naked. 

“Looking good, Y/n,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. Climbing off the table and grabbing Sam’s hand, she pulls him away, towards their shared room. 

“Jackass,” she mutters under her breath, passing by him. And as they walk down the hall, his voice bounces off the walls. 

“Use protection, kids!”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Thoughts?


End file.
